


we've got your back

by tigrrmilk



Series: musketeers terrible london bakery au [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, F/F, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fair warning: this is a very self-indulgent fic, i was hungry when i wrote it which you can probably... tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigrrmilk/pseuds/tigrrmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not still angry about the cronut thing, are you?” Porthos says. “Mate, you’ve got to let that one go.”</p><p>“I will not,” Athos says, and that’s the end of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we've got your back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperclipbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/gifts).



> THANK YOU to [paperclipbitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch) for helping me plan this and for letting me send her very strange messages about it all the time. she came up with a lot of this, and i am very grateful.
> 
> this is the first in a series of irregular one-shots.

It’s less than two hours into his first day of work that d’Artagnan starts to wonder if maybe, maybe, he shouldn’t have just taken the first job he was offered.

He gets to the bakery just before 8. Porthos has already been there for god knows how long baking bread, and he’s covered in flour, but he smiles at D’Artagnan and says, “are you the work experience? Do you want some coffee?”

d’Artagnan says yes to the coffee, and by the time he’s drinking it and his brain’s working, it’s too late for him to say no, I’m not the work experience, I work here now. Permanently.

Athos, who makes pastry and cakes and various other things, arrives at about 9am. He grunts at d’Artagnan, who doesn’t realise who he is, because why would he, and tries to shove past him to get to the kitchen.

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan says, “there’s a man --”

“Athos,” Porthos says from the kitchen, in a loud voice. He hasn’t even looked into the room. Maybe he recognised the grunting. “Say hello to the work experience boy.”

“ _Why_ ,” Athos says.

“He serves customers so that you don’t have to,” Porthos says.

Athos grunts again, and disappears to make a batch of croissants and eclairs and cupcakes and who knows what else, but it smells good.

At about 11am, Porthos appears from the kitchen (there’s not actually a door between the rooms, just a thick plastic curtain, but it was starting to feel lonely) with a basket of misshapen, warm bread rolls and a slab of butter, and says, “has Aramis been by today?”

“I don’t know who that is,” d’Artagnan says. He butters one of the rolls and it’s basically the best thing he’s ever eaten. Porthos takes a big bite from one too, and they both sigh, happily.

“Customer,” Porthos says. Haven’t seen many of those, d’Artagnan thinks. “Curly hair,” Porthos says. “Pretty.”

“He’s got a stupid hipster beard,” Athos says, peering his head around the curtain. He’s got a kind of plastic hairnet on, and he’s got a bushy enough beard that d’Artagnan really doesn’t think he can talk. “Work experience boy, have we got any wine?”

“It’s not even midday,” d’Artagnan says. “No.”

Athos vanishes back into the kitchen, muttering.

“The only person I’ve seen recently was a man in a red apron who tried to knock over the bread basket by the door,” d’Artagnan says. “I made him leave.”

“Good man,” Porthos says, but he looks at the door a bit wistfully as he goes back to the kitchen.

  


***

  


Treville comes by after lunch to do the accounts, and slumps at one of the two small round metal tables they have in the main area of the shop with a croissant. He’s the only one who d’Artagnan had even met before today, but he’s basically retired, so he’s not supposed to be around much.

“Settling in okay?” he asks, his elbows on the table. He’s got one of those reusable takeaway coffee cups with him, but it’s already got coffee in it. His laptop has started to make angry noises.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. “Great, thanks.”

“Athos not causing too much trouble?” he asks.

“Er,” d’Artagnan says. “No?”

d’Artagnan sells the odd loaf of bread to a passing tourist, but mostly he spends his time staring at the coffee shop opposite (red aprons, he notices) and packing up pastries and cakes for delivery. Constance, their courier, smiles at him when she stops by mid-afternoon.

“You’re the work experience?” she says. She’s got a bike helmet on, and cool black boots with pink and purple daisies all over them.

“No,” d’Artagnan says, “I work here now!” If he was work experience, he’d just be following Porthos and Athos around. He’s actually working. And they’re paying him a living wage. Almost. Somehow.

“Sorry,” she says with a big smile, and she carefully takes boxes and boxes of different pastries and cakes that d’Artagnan had carefully packed and wrapped with colourful ribbons.

“She seems nice,” d’Artagnan says, after she’s left, in a voice loud enough to carry to the kitchen.

“Constance?” Porthos asks.

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. Athos emits a noise that sounds distressingly close to a hiss.

“You’re not still angry about the cronut thing, are you?” Porthos says. “Mate, you’ve got to let that one go.”

“I will not,” Athos says, and that’s the end of that. Treville sighs, very heavily.

  


***

  


d’Artagnan gets to the bakery early the next morning and Porthos shows him how to bake sourdough rolls. “Does it matter if we leave the door unlocked while we’re not in the main shop?” he asks.

“Nah,” Porthos says, wiping a floury hand on his apron. “We’ll hear if anyone comes in.”

But when d’Artagnan emerges half an hour later, he finds a smashed chocolate cake in the middle of the floor. He _hadn’t_ heard anyone come in. “That’s not one of mine,” Athos says, when he appears a couple of minutes later. He doesn’t help d’Artagnan clean it up. Neither does Porthos. d’Artagnan tries his best not to get cake on his knees.

He’s still scrubbing the floor clean when a customer almost walks into him. “Hey,” he says, and puts his hands up.

“I didn’t see you,” the customer says. He’s got dark glasses on. In a shopping centre. In April. He looks at the empty counter, and then back down at d’Artagnan. “What have you done with Porthos?"

d’Artagnan gets to his feet and goes back behind the counter, then says, “he’s still here. What’ll it be?”

The customer hands him a thermos flask, and says, “coffee.”

“Er, Porthos,” d’Artagnan says, loudly. “There’s a man who wants a thermos of coffee.”

“Aramis!” Porthos calls from the kitchen, and he appears at d’Artagnan’s shoulder a second later. The customer -- Aramis -- smiles. It’s unnerving because he’s still got the glasses on, but he pushes them up to look at Porthos, and then winces from the light and closes his eyes for a second.

He _is_ pretty, d’Artagnan thinks, grudgingly. Athos was right about the beard, though.

“Black?” Porthos asks, taking the thermos from d’Artagnan and going over to fiddle with his fancy coffee machine.

“Yes,” Aramis says. “We’ve got milk at work.”

“Oh?” Porthos asks, looking over his shoulder at Aramis. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Oh,” Aramis says, after a moment, and he rummages in his pockets. “I’ve got a pastry delivery order...” He finally pulls a piece of paper out from a back pocket and gives it to d’Artagnan.

“Um,” d’Artagnan says. He reads the order and wishes he hadn’t. The message he’s asked to have piped onto the pastry is _obscene_. And it’s got a delivery address for _someone other than Aramis_.

“Just give it to Athos, he’s used to it,” Porthos says. The coffee machine is whirring and splashing. What does that even mean? Why would he be used to it!

d’Artagnan hears something that sounds suspiciously like “DIE” coming from where Athos has remained, holed-up in the kitchen, but he does his best to ignore it.

“ _Porthos_ ,” Aramis says, really drawing out the name for as long as possible. “Your work experience boy is _blushing_.”

“I’m not the work experience,” d’Artagnan says. “I _work here_.”

Porthos hands Aramis his flask, and says to d’Artagnan, “that’s not what you said when we met yesterday.”

d’Artagnan opens his mouth, and then closes it again. “What would someone on work experience even do?” he asks, after a few seconds have passed. “Would they just watch you manhandling dough in the kitchen?”

Aramis is fishing money out of his back pocket - his trousers are far too tight, d’Artagnan thinks, sourly - and he perks up a bit at this. “Well, if you’re looking for anyone to fill this important role, you know where to find me,” he says.

Porthos gives him his change, and says, “we’re not, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Aramis says, “I’m going to be late for work again, fuck,” salutes, and leaves. Porthos waves and stares after him as he goes. d’Artagnan doesn’t say anything.

Until he says, “what the fuck does he do?”

“No idea,” Porthos says, and claps a hand on his shoulder as he goes back into the kitchen, Aramis’s obscene order in his hand.

A minute or two later, Athos definitely shouts the word “DIE” again, with more force this time.

“He’s not here,” d’Artagnan calls, half singing the words, because he had to crack at some point.

  


***

 

Treville comes by that afternoon again - he’s still doing the accounts - and d’Artagnan grabs his break while he’s there, with a big cup of coffee and one of the sourdough rolls with some super fancy ham that Porthos keeps in the fridge.

“So, I’ve been trying to work out what Aramis does,” Porthos says, because he’s at the counter when d’Artagnan’s not working.

“Yeah?” d’Artagnan says. “Does he work here?” He points out of the shop door and then waves his hand around to indicate that the means the shopping centre in general, and not their tiny bakery. Based on his one meeting with him, he thinks Athos would probably have killed him by now.

“He used to have a boutique on the next floor up,” Porthos says. “Nice clothes an’ all.”

“They were terrible,” Athos says, very loudly, from the kitchen.

“They were nice,” Porthos protests. “Bit cool for Athos maybe, but his design work’s sharp, and they were always well-made.”

Athos makes a disgusted noise but doesn’t say anything else.

“Got this cardigan there, actually,” Porthos says, and pulls the sleeves over his hands for a moment. The cardigan is a deep blue, and it’s cable-knit. d’Artagnan thinks, this makes sense. Everything’s suddenly falling into place. Aramis’s facial hair, Porthos’s cardigan, everything else in the world.

“What happened?” d’Artagnan says. He’s savouring the bread and ham for as long as he can, by eating it in tiny bites. It’s just so... good.

“Well, he ran it with his boyfriend, and what I heard was that the boyfriend ran off with all the money and Aramis had to close up.”

“Oh,” d’Artagnan says, and blinks. He eats the last bite of the roll. “That’s horrible.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, and rubs at his beard. “But he’s still here most days, so I can’t work out what he’s doing now.”

“Can’t you just ask him?” d’Artagnan asks.

“Nah,” Porthos says. “I’m going to work it out.”

Treville bangs his coffee down on the table and looks at them both, then back down at his accounting. His laptop is whirring.

“He works for the coffee shop,” Athos calls, helpfully.

“The coffee shop he hates?” d’Artagnan asks Porthos.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “I don’t think so, though.”

d’Artagnan puts his apron back on and gets back behind the counter. He spends the remainder of the afternoon staring at the coffee shop opposite, but he doesn’t see anyone who looks remotely like Aramis enter or leave, and he’s fairly sure he didn’t go in that direction this morning, anyway.

Besides, if he works in a coffee shop, why would he buy coffee from _Porthos_?

  


***

 

The next morning, d’Artagnan is stopped on his way to work by a beautiful woman with long dark hair. “Free coffee!” she says, and he’s tired and he could really do with a coffee. She hands him a small cardboard cup, and he drinks it quickly, and then she looks at him and says, “you look like you could do with another one.”

“Thanks,” d’Artagnan says, after he drinks the second cup, and nestles it inside the other empty. God, he likes this coffee. This woman is an angel. He's going to marry her. Just so he can keep getting more of this coffee. And... well.

“You should stop by sometime,” she says, and indicates the coffee shop opposite the bakery. Uh, d’Artagnan thinks. _She’s not wearing an apron_. “I’ve seen you at your work - we’d love to get to know our neighbours better!”

She seems - well, she seems really... nice. Especially considering where she works. d’Artagnan thinks about the collapsed cake on the floor of the bakery, but why would a professional adult have even done that, anyway? Much more likely it was an accident or a passing dickhead.

She definitely hasn’t been into the bakery, though, so he’s not sure how she’s seen him. He would have _remembered_ if she’d been into the bakery. He’s sure.

“That would be nice,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m d’Artagnan.”

She smiles at him, and says, “Milady.”

“Um,” he says.

“That’s my name,” she says, and rolls her eyes, as if to say, _I know, but what can you do_? “One more for the road? I hear your boss is a terrible stickler for punctuality.”

d’Artagnan drinks another of the little coffees, and makes it into the bakery a few minutes past 8. Nobody notices, because Porthos is the only other person there, and he’s not actually his boss. He comes out at half past to show d’Artagnan how to use the coffee machine, and they’re still working at it half an hour later when Athos comes in.

“Hi!” d’Artagnan says, and Athos grunts in return, but he nods gratefully when he slides him a cup they’d made for him in preparation only a minute before. It’s steaming, but he starts to drink it anyway. d’Artagnan winces. He always has to leave hot drinks to cool down. Athos must have blisters all over his mouth, he thinks.

“Three shots of espresso, and steamed milk,” Porthos had said. “Don’t put in any sugar or he’ll kill you.”

 

***

 

Aramis comes by at about half nine again. No sunglasses this time, but his eyes still look a bit... red. He greets d’Artagnan by saying, “oh, it’s you again,” and this time he just hands over a deep pink plastic portable coffee cup.

“A more civilised amount of coffee today,” he says.

“Black?” d’Artagnan says, and moves towards the coffee machine.

“I’d quite like a flat white, actually,” Aramis says, and then he says, “are you making the coffee now? What about --”

d’Artagnan sighs, and rests his head against the coffee machine for a second before he yells, “Porthos!”

Porthos appears from the kitchen, a big smile on his face, and says, “Oh yeah, I’ll do the foamed milk, you haven’t got the hang of it yet.”

“No pastry order today?” d’Artagnan asks, as Aramis pays him for the coffee and Porthos is carefully making some kind of pattern with cocoa powder on the top of it.

“No,” he says, “I thought yesterday’s would probably do it. Well, later!”

He salutes again, and Porthos repeats his sad little wave and stare act from the previous day. This is _terrible_ , d’Artagnan thinks.

  


***

  


“Oh, I know,” Constance says, when d’Artagnan mentions it to her that afternoon. She seems to have freshly dyed her hair - it’s this beautiful coppery pink colour that d’Artagnan feels like he’s never even seen before. It’s raining outside and she’s got this leather jacket on that’s splattered with water across the shoulders, and her hair is plastered to her forehead beneath her goggles, but she can’t stop grinning. “It’s totally tragic.”

“So you know him too?” he asks. “Do you know what he does for a job?”

“Yes,” she says, and then, before he can open his mouth she also says, “but I can’t tell you, because I have a bet going with Anne about how long it’ll take before one of them finds it out.”

“Anne?” d’Artagnan asks. She smirks.

“My girlfriend,” she says. Oh, d’Artagnan thinks. “She works for the company that manages this whole complex.” She draws a circle in the air with her finger.

“Right,” d’Artagnan says, with as much cheer as he can muster. “Good - good for you.”

“Yeah,” she says, but she’s looking at him a bit strangely now. “Anyway, it’s been like a year now and still, nothing. We’ve had to renegotiate the bet. Twice.”

“All they do is suggest things to each other and then say no,” d’Artagnan says. “Athos still thinks he works for the coffee shop opposite, even though he could just go in and see that he’s not there.”

“Oh, no,” Constance says, and shakes her head at him. “He could never do that.” She looks up at the clock, and then says, “I’d better go. Do keep an eye on them, won’t you? I worry.”

 

***

  


“You know we can hear everything you say out here, yeah?” Porthos says, later on, when d’Artagnan is eating a late lunch at the table out the front. Treville didn’t stop by today. He refuses to blush, but he doesn’t quite meet Porthos’s gaze.

“I stand by everything I said,” he says, and Porthos laughs.

“Oh, I’m not saying I disagree with any of it,” he says.

 

***

 

The next morning, d’Artagnan is stopped by Milady again. This time, she presses a big cup of coffee into his hands. “You look like you need it,” she says, and waves him away when he asks how much he owes her. “You’re our neighbour,” she says. “We’re practically comrades in arms.”

d’Artagnan is happily sipping away at his coffee as he stands at the counter when Porthos pokes his head around the curtain, and then says, “what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m drinking some coffee,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m sorry, I know it’s not yours, but --”

“It’s not that,” Porthos says, and he rubs at his face furiously and stares at the door to the cafe. “I don’t care if you don’t drink our coffee, but Athos will kill you.”

“What’s he got against them?” d’Artagnan says. “I really like their coffee.”  
  
Porthos makes a wounded noise. “Yours is better!” d’Artagnan says. “But she gave this to me for free!”

“She?” Porthos asks, and then says, “You know what, I don’t want to know. Just get rid of it before he gets here.”

“How will he even know,” d’Artagnan asks, but he downs the last of the coffee.

“Their cups are red,” Porthos says.

“Oh yeah,” d’Artagnan says. It is _very_ red. “You know, I think Treville drinks their coffee too.”

Actually, he’s sure of it. He’s seen him coming out of there more than once.

“Throw it away on the second floor,” Porthos says. This seems extreme, but d’Artagnan is done arguing about this. “Treville pays us, and he also has the sense to use his own cup.”

d’Artagnan takes the escalator up and throws it into a recycling bin. He stares around at the various shops, most of them not even open yet, and wonders which one of them used to house Aramis’s boutique.

 

***

 

Aramis turns up that morning with the pink cup again, and asks for a mocha. d’Artagnan calls Porthos and then makes the coffee himself, so that they’re free to make eyes at each other as much as they want.

“I’ve got another pastry order!” Aramis says, and gives it to Porthos. Porthos laughs, dirtily. It’s way more than d’Artagnan needs at half 9 in the morning.

“Bit much, don’t you think,” Porthos says.

“Oh, she’s a big fan of Athos’s baking,” Aramis says. “Can’t blame her. Superb... cakes.”

Athos shouts something that sounds like, “LEAVE ME ALONE,” which is certainly a step up from _DIE_.

“I meant the message,” Porthos says, “but yeah, good to know.”

 

***

 

“For the same woman?” d’Artagnan asks Porthos after Aramis has gone.

“Nah, it’s for Anne,” he says.

“Wait... Constance’s Anne?” d’Artagnan asks. “Is it... the same kind of message?”

“Yeah,” Porthos says, and shakes his head.

 

***

 

d’Artagnan wraps up the cake for Anne, but can’t stop himself from telling Constance about it when she comes by. She laughs at him, and says, “they’re friends.”

What is wrong with everyone, d’Artagnan thinks, hysterically. “Friends don’t harass friends with obscene pastry,” he says.

“Aw,” Constance says. “Where did they find you, you’re _adorable_.”

 

***

  


The next day is Friday, and d’Artagnan is elated at the idea that there will be two whole days that he doesn’t have to work. Porthos and Athos each tend to work one day of the weekend and then try and take one day off during the week. So Porthos isn’t in today, but Athos is not so great at taking time off, it turns out.

“I’ve had to kick him out, sometimes,” Treville says. He’s by with his accounting again. d’Artagnan doesn’t understand how there is so much accounting. They don’t really have any customers, except the people who order cakes and pastries online. And Aramis, and random tourists, but... for the most part, there’s not really anyone.

d’Artagnan will switch to a schedule more like theirs soon, but Treville had thought it best to have him in for a whole week first, for “training”, if that’s what he calls Porthos showing him the coffee machine and how to knead dough. Which it kind of is, although he would have preferred being shown how to tie ribbons around boxes, since that’s what he spends most of his time doing.

Aramis appears at about 5pm, instead of in the morning, and he says, “when are you off?”

“Me?” d’Artagnan asks, and looks around. “Porthos isn’t here.”

“You,” Aramis confirms, with a glint in his eye. He looks much more awake and put-together than d’Artagnan has seen him before. “Come on, I’m not going to do anything untoward, I just thought we should get a drink, get to know each other.”

“He’s seen your pastry orders,” Athos says. He’s sitting at the table with Treville, and he’s now glaring up at them.

“You can come for a drink too?” Aramis offers. Athos snorts, and doesn’t say anything. Aramis stares at him for a while before he sighs, accepting that the offer has been refused. “You haven’t been out for ages,” he says, “don’t think that I’ll forget about you.”

Treville looks up at d’Artagnan, checks the time on his watch, and sighs. “Go on, get out,” he says. “We’re going to lock up late today anyway.”

d’Artagnan takes his apron off, and gets his things, and thinks, well, what’s the worst that could happen.

 

***

 

It’s surprisingly okay. Aramis has somehow got a small table reserved in a nearby pub that’s full of people in office clothes getting fucked, and he buys the drinks. It’s noisy, but there’s no sport on, so d’Artagnan is grateful for small mercies

“So,” Aramis asks after about an hour and a half of slightly awkward conversation about beer, what they studied at university (Aramis studied theology, surprisingly, although he says that he spent most of his time making clothes for the theatre department), what d’Artagnan thinks about Porthos’s cardigan, what they thought about Gone Girl and which is their favourite of Athos’s pastries. “How did you end up with a job in our favourite dysfunctional bakery?” He’s shouting over the closing strains of something terrible by The Kooks that someone pulled up on the jukebox.

“My dad knows Treville,” he says. “He said they were looking for someone.”

“Good man, Treville,” Aramis says. “Helped me out a bit last year when -- well.” He sounds kind of wistful.

“He seems nice,” d’Artagnan says. “Was really glad to have a job, honestly.”

“Yes,” Aramis says. “I... know the feeling.”

“You know that they’re trying to work out what you do, right?” d’Artagnan says.

Aramis smiles at him and waggles his fingers. “Of course I know. And I’m not going to tell you, so don’t think you can ply me with drinks and force me to reveal the truth.”

“You’re the one doing the plying,” d’Artagnan says, playing with a spare coaster. Aramis laughs.

“This isn’t plying,” he says. “This is friendship.”

“Huh,” d’Artagnan says, and finishes his drink. “So, do you want to tell me why Athos hates the coffee shop opposite? And why he thinks you work there?”

“Not sure it’s really my tale to go into,” Aramis says. “Besides, I’m not sure I really know. Something about the manager. They have history, I suppose.”

“You don’t work there,” d’Artagnan says. He just really needs to clarify this.

“Fuck, no,” Aramis says. He grins. “Another drink?”

Aramis chats to a guy at the bar when ordering, and d’Artagnan’s sure he gives him his number, but as soon as he’s served he comes back to sit with d’Artagnan. “Just this one more,” d’Artagnan says. “Can’t get home too drunk, my Dad’ll be in.” Also it’s a long way home - d’Artagnan lives in fucking Bromley.

“Where’s the fun in that,” Aramis says, but he doesn’t push the issue. He leaves when d’Artagnan does, without a glance for the guy he’d been talking to earlier.

 

***

 

On Monday, Porthos says, “you should have texted me! I wasn’t doing anything,” but he doesn’t seem upset.

“I don’t have your number,” d’Artagnan says, so they swap numbers.

“Never drink with Porthos,” Athos says. He’s drinking a cup of coffee at the table before he can face going into the kitchen. It seems to have been a rough weekend. “He makes you play poker.”

“You love playing poker with me,” Porthos says. Athos says something unintelligible, but presumably sweary, into his coffee.

“Last time we got a big game together,” Porthos says, “I won against the staff members over there.” He tilts his head to indicate the coffee shop, although d’Artagnan already knew what he meant by _over there_. “Technically, I should own the shop,” he says, thoughtfully.

“You haven’t claimed your grand prize?” d’Artagnan says. “You surprise me, Porthos.”

“One of these days,” he says, “they won’t know what hit them.”

 

***

 

The week passes much as the previous one did. d’Artagnan takes Wednesday off and works Saturday, which is surprisingly similar to the rest of the week. Aramis even stops by for lunch. Late lunch. It’s 3pm, and he’s got sunglasses on again (a different pair), and he makes Porthos make his coffee.

“No offence, work experience boy,” Aramis says, “but it really is better when Porthos makes it.”

“When are you going to start calling me by my name,” d’Artagnan says. Porthos gives Aramis his cup and then sits at the table with him while he drinks it. He drums his fingers on the table.

“When it stops being funny,” Aramis says. He gives Porthos a look. Porthos stops drumming his fingers on the table.

“So, never,” Porthos says, with an apologetic smile.

 

***

 

“Right,” Athos says, one morning a couple of weeks later, as soon as he gets in. His jaw is set, and his eyes are bright. “Today I’m going to show you how to make croissants.”

“Um,” d’Artagnan says, and scrambles to wash his hands and make it into the kitchen before Athos changes his mind.

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos says. “I’ll mind the counter.”

Athos baking is -- amazing. And terrifying. He’s not even just baking croissants - he’s doing so many things at once. d’Artagnan has never seen anything like it. Or... it’s like when you watch a gymnast jumping between the bars. d’Artagnan doesn’t get to do much, but he watches him closely. After a while, Athos starts to _hum_. He’s so... relaxed.

When they’re finished and d’Artagnan goes back to mind the counter, Porthos smiles at his dazed look. “Aramis sends his love,” he says, and goes into the kitchen to give the latest delivery order to Athos, who’s in such a good baking mood that he doesn’t even swear.

Or, not that d’Artagnan can hear, anyway.

  


***

 

It’s maybe a month or six weeks after d’Artagnan’s started his job when Porthos finally walks in one day and says, “I know what Aramis does.”

“What,” d’Artagnan says. “Besides use our pastry to woo people, you mean.”

Porthos doesn’t say anything. d’Artagnan looks up at him. He looks... dazed.

It’s five, but Porthos had had to pop out mid-afternoon to pick his best friend’s kid up from the creche upstairs and then drop her off back at home, because he’d been babysitting since the night before to allow Flea to have a well-deserved date night.

“Yeah?” d’Artagnan asks. “So, what. You walked past him spraying people with perfume? Seen him acting as somebody’s personal shopper?”

Porthos makes a strangled noise, and says, “ _no_.”

Athos has appeared at d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Is he managing the coffee shop,” he asks.

“No,” Porthos says. Treville looks up from the table that he’s working at. “He’s working at the _creche_.”

 

***

 

Porthos had gone up to pick up Lidia at about 3pm. When he’d dropped her off at hell-o’clock in the morning, a woman named Alice had signed her in and taken his number for emergency purposes, and he’d left and not thought much more about it.

But at 3pm, Alice wasn’t there anymore. Nobody was at the little reception point at all. Porthos rang the bell, and peered in at the open plan carnival hellscape that was the shopping centre’s creche and suddenly: there he was. Aramis. A little girl was braiding his hair and there was glittery red paint on his face. “Okay,” he said to her, “I need you to stop now, I have to see to a parent.”

“Hello,” Porthos said. Aramis turned his head around. His eyes were very wide. He stood up.

“You’ve found me, then,” he said, and rubbed at the paint on his face (which only spread it around more). He looked at his hand and grimaced. The curls at the nape of his neck had come loose from the braid already. “Quite the change, isn’t it.”

“Yeah,” Porthos said. “But that’s not -- I’m here to pick up Lidia.”

“Oh, right,” Aramis said, and smiled at him as he passed him a form to sign. “But you have found me,” he says. “That means you win.”

“Yeah?” Porthos said. “What do I win?” He clicked the pen more times than was necessary and rested his other hand on the reception desk.

“That depends,” Aramis said, slowly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You know, I never was entirely sure of the stakes for this one..”

 

***

 

Porthos slumps against the counter after he narrates the whole tale. Oh no, d’Artagnan thinks.

“What,” Athos says. There’s a croak in his voice. d’Artagnan looks down at him. “That is a terrible decision.”

d’Artagnan’s not sure what he’s referring to in particular.

“It made a surprising amount of sense, seeing him there,” Porthos says. “But thinking about it now, I’m not sure how.”

“Well done,” Treville says. “Now, we’re going to close in a bit, so get back to work.” d’Artagnan claps Porthos on the shoulder as he makes his way back into the kitchen.

 

***

 

“Of course I knew,” Treville says, as d’Artagnan helps him lock up. “I know everything.”

 

***

 

The next morning, Aramis turns up for his morning coffee with a pastry order that isn’t even obscene. “This is how I’m letting Anne and Constance know about their bet,” he says.

“But -- you work with children! And you order all those pastries!” d’Artagnan says, as he makes the coffee. Porthos comes out of the kitchen but doesn’t say anything, he just stands there. There was clearly an accident in the kitchen earlier that morning and he’s even more covered in flour than usual. Aramis’s eyebrows go up.

“They’re not for the children,” he says. “Surely you understand that.”

 

***

 

“I don’t understand why you don’t just ask him out,” d’Artagnan says.

“He’s terrible and it would be terrible,” Athos says. “More coffee.” He waves his cup at d’Artagnan until he takes it.

d’Artagnan makes him another cup of coffee.

Porthos shakes his head. “He’s a mate,” he says. “Besides...”

d’Artagnan thinks of the number of pastries Aramis orders to have delivered to different people. He also thinks about him in the pub that one time, the way he’d turned away in his chair from the man at the bar who was trying to make eye contact with him.

 

***

 

It’s Athos’s birthday the week after that, and somehow, somehow, d’Artagnan finds himself dragged to the pub with all of them. Porthos, Treville, Athos, Aramis, various people from other shops nearby (but nobody from the coffee shop), and Constance, who’s wearing her doc martens with a summery dress. She keeps saying things like, “I love summer!” despite the fact that summer in London is _disgusting_.

It’s the same pub as before, only this time Aramis had managed to book them a back room, so it’s not as noisy. Athos and Aramis and Porthos start to play poker, and d’Artagnan drifts around meeting people and getting a bit drunk, until he arrives back at their table a while later, thinking that it’s probably time for him to leave.

Aramis is down to his underwear and... braces. Which are clipped to his _boxers_. Athos and Porthos are fully dressed. There’s a weird assortment of money - some of it’s definitely not British money - in the middle of the table. Aramis salutes at him, cheerily.

“You’re winning, then?” d’Artagnan says to Athos. 

“No,” he says. “I’m not playing strip poker.”

d’Artagnan looks at Aramis. “ _Aramis_ is playing strip poker,” Athos clarifies. “I’m playing... poker.”

d’Artagnan looks at Porthos. “I'm playing strip poker,” Porthos says, and raises one of his feet into the air so that d’Artagnan can see that it’s bare.

“Porthos cheats,” Aramis says. Porthos does his dirtiest laugh, and then swears as Aramis reveals his hand across the table with an elegant swipe. d’Artagnan had distracted him, somehow. He hopes Aramis is grateful. “Your top next,” Aramis says, waving with his beer bottle.

d’Artagnan looks around, trying not to blush, which isn’t his fault because it’s so warm in here, Christ, and he sees... at the bar, he sees the woman from the coffee shop. She sees him. She wets her bottom lip with her tongue. Oh no, he thinks. He thinks about walking over to her. He thinks -- Athos probably doesn’t even know her.

Athos follows his gaze, and freezes. “I think it’s time for us to leave,” Athos says, and gets up from the table. Porthos starts to rise but Athos swipes a hand through the air. “No,” he says. “Stay.” Porthos looks around and his eyes widen. He nods.

“Yeah,” he says. He claps his hands together. “I will.”

Aramis makes a feeble noise that sounds a bit like the word “shirt,” but doesn’t say anything else.

Athos and d’Artagnan walk to Stratford station together. The air is still very warm, but it’s less horrible outside. Athos is very quiet. Earlier, he’d almost been smiling. “That was a nice evening,” d’Artagnan says. “Really... nice.” He's still trying to work out what it all... means. Maybe Athos had just had enough and wanted to leave. Maybe --

Athos doesn’t say anything to that, but he claps him on the shoulder when they’re about to separate to find their different platforms. “I’m glad you came to us for your work experience,” he says. His voice is so... haughty. d’Artagnan’s still not used to it. “I hope you’re learning a lot about life.”

d’Artagnan stares after him as he leaves. _What_.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!! you can find me on [tumblr](http://alwaysalreadyangry.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/tambourine) if you want to wail with me about how terrible and amazing the musketeers are, or send me questions or prompts or whatever.


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